one, two, three, four

who's been married one year more?

that would be me, and m, of course.

in honor of our fourth wedding anniversary, i feel compelled to share favorite photos of our most lovely day.

it's so nice to reminisce.

Why I Love the 4th of July

I love the 4th of July because the celebration of the holiday ignites the same sense of wonder I felt as a child.  

There is something magical about fireworks coupled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude for this great country that makes me spontaneously giggle and smile.  

When you are a child, you're told that Easter and Christmas are about something more significant than candy and gifts, but the stories don't thrill you as much as the goodies do.  Then, the minute you learn the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus aren't real, these holidays are changed forever.  Not necessarily for the worse, you learn as you mature, but it seems contemplating the mystery of the true meaning of these holidays just doesn't feel the same as the excited anticipation for Santa's arrival, and you may, like I have, find yourself longing for that childhood experience again.

But fireworks are real!  They're real when you're a child, when you're an adult, and that never changes!  They're always spectacular.

I love this day because it is for every American no matter the race, religion, or age. Thanksgiving is, too, but there are no fireworks, so today is better. 

My Very Own Treasure Chest

Today I took a little time to enjoy a treasure that was a wedding gift to me from my grandmother. 

Take a peek inside!  

"What IS that" you may be asking yourself...

A hidden note reveals the answer:

Every last detail of the box was delicately crafted with a touch unique to my grandma's unparalleled artistic sensibilities.

Above, images to remind me where I came from

Who I am

Little pockets everywhere, filled with proverbs to uplift and special notes from each of my siblings to cherish

Below, a window into the things I love the most, and some of my accomplishments

Showing my engagement ring to my grandparents (a little jewel glued to the photo really makes a nice sparkle!)

An homage to my professional opera debut

Playing in a piano recital

The memories most precious to me are all contained within, and those I make along the way will have their trinkets placed in the box to help me remember.

You may have your raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens.... I have my blue box.

Isn't it just lovely?

My grandpa's letter to his first-born son

My Uncle Steve found an old letter written to him by my grandfather that had gone unread and unnoticed for 47 years. The discovery of this letter is pretty timely considering the ill health that my grandfather is in. I wanted to share it with whomever is reading this because I thought it was very sweet and touching. This is what it said:

Like you, Steven, I am cursed with insomnia. But tonight is Christmas Day 1962 and things in my heart are bursting to be said. And I know if I defer the task, too soon it will be Christmas 1963 and these things will still be within me. I wish that I were more articulate and could put down more profoundly what I wish to say. And that in itself is part of it ... part of this puzzle called life ... to wish. To wish to be better -- stronger -- more skillful -- more witty -- more physically attractive. But as it is, we are what we are.

A season such as this is one of life's milestones. A time for review ... for looking back over the shoulder at this story we have written. And when one looks back, the way seems so short. How natural it would feel for me to be back in my child's body. Back in that old backyard peering intently at a bumblebee busying himself among the hollyhocks. Or lying on my back in warm, moist grass watching cloud-pictures.

We had an old barn with a high window. It would be completely right if tomorrow in my child's body I should go out and take the dare and jump out of that old high window, and have my heart stop for an instant as I whoosh down.

A tree of heaven flourished in the back yard (whoever named that tree must have meant it as a joke). When you touched the leaves, your hands smelled vile. In front stood a catalpa tree. When it blossomed into an unbelievably fragrant white cloud, we would pick the blossom cups and suck the nectar. That was a real tree of heaven. It would be perfectly natural if tomorrow, in my child's body, I would go back and climb that catalpa tree. The last time I climbed it, I was seven years old. But I could climb it tomorrow and be at home in it.

I have watched these hands that now write this. Small hands that struggled to learn to tie a shoelace (with assistance from a wiggling tongue). How quickly they were man's hands. How quickly. On summer nights when the weather was sticky and no one could sleep anyway, we would sit in the dark on the front porch. And you could hear the voices up and down the block as other people sat in the dark and talked, and just listened to June bugs drone. And somewhere a radio played far away.

As the years pile up, they speed like the vortex of a whirlpool. And the press of obligation, the urgency of the moment, supersedes all. Until, at times like this or sometimes when I look at you in sleep, I remember how short a time it really was that I dreamed child's dreams and thought child's thoughts. I am not wise as I wish I could be. But I have come to a conclusion about life that I want to pass on to you, my darling children. It is very simple and this is it --

This very instant is life. Nothing can be changed in that which has just passed. Nothing we do can assure us of the next one. Do with this very instant of life whatever you can. Savor it ... don't set your dreams aside for tomorrow. Dream them now or do about them what you can. This instant is all that matters. Never keep words of love shyly in your heart, for they will wither there like flowers.

I have said for today all I can, for as I look at the wall clock, it is 12:10 and Christmas 1962 is gone forever. Today I am 34 years old.